U.G.H.
No.
Her fingers went back to her hair, plucking out pins left and right, pretending he wasn’t there . . . even as she felt him in every cell.
“So, I was thinking—”
She snorted. The man just couldn’t stop thinking.
“—that I should go out and buy a cake for Jaime and Kate.”
Unbidden, she felt her heart give a little squeeze before she shored it back up, before she slapped a heavy chain and padlock around it, protecting the bruised organ. “I already Instacarted one.” She picked up her purse, digging past the various items that had made up her bride emergency kit—clear nail polish for runs in stockings, safety pins, Band-Aids, wet wipes, energy bars, and more—for her cell. Feeling like she should cheer when she managed to retrieve her phone from that black hole, she tapped a finger on the screen, checked on the cake’s process. “See?” She turned, showing him the screen. “It should be here in fifteen minutes.”
His eyes changed, emotions mixing in them that she couldn’t read, but then he shifted back slightly. “Ah.”
Right.
She gave him her back again, set her cell down, and focused back on her hair, searching for any bobby pins that might be hiding in the heavy, dark locks. Not finding any, she resumed her patting, scrubbing, and picking at the frosting that had hardened into her curls during the time she’d spent trying to save her friend’s wedding.
Capturing the freaking rooster—who was far more agile and much quicker than she was—and wrestling him into the cage, double-checking that the lock was properly secured the second time around.
Righting the cake table and managing to salvage one tier, so at least Kate and Jaime would be able to cut something that resembled a wedding cake for pictures.
Getting ice for the pain-in-the-ass’s head who was still standing behind her.
And finally, with frosting and cake bits coating the gorgeous purple dress Kate had picked out for all the bridesmaids, she’d attempted to salvage her outfit.
And hair.
And makeup.
All of which were proving to be . . . unsalvageable.
Fingers in her hair making her shiver, making her hate herself for that shiver. Brad tugged out a pin she’d missed and set it on the counter. “I—” he began.
“Will you just fuck off?” she snapped, slapping her hands down onto that granite and glaring at him in the mirror again. “I get I was an easy fuck a few months ago, but I’m not going to be one again. I get that it was good, but what I don’t get is how it’s always so fucking easy for men to walk away from me.” She blinked, wishing she could take that last part back. Unfortunately, since she didn’t possess time-traveling abilities, she pressed on. “A note,” she said. “That’s all it would have taken. Just a simple goodbye, rather than skulking off before the sun rose like I’m some little dirty, shameful secret.”
Hazel eyes holding hers in the reflection.
He had a colored streak of frosting on his left cheek, though his white shirt was almost pristine. Probably because his suit jacket had taken the brunt of the purple and cream-colored cake.
Stupid men. Could just strip off their jackets and look perfectly normal.
“You’re right,” he said after a long, tense moment. “I’m sorry. I should have left a note or said goodbye.”
An apology.
Just like that.
Then he smiled—slow and hot and thigh-quiveringly sexy. “But in fairness to me, I’ve had some . . . unpleasant morning interactions.” A shrug. “Sometimes it’s better for everyone if I just leave.”
And just like that, back to the cocky asshole.
She stifled a sigh. “Goodbye, Brad.”
Then she focused all her attention on the towel and the sink and not the man behind her, nor on her nipples that were perky in memory of the horizontal yummy time, nor on her vagina that was feeling empty and neglected because she was ignoring its urges.
“I—”
“Goodbye.”
After several moments, he released a breath and she watched him out of the corner of her eye as he left the bathroom, the door clicking closed softly behind him.
“Thank God,” she whispered, going back to work with the towel and warm water, and by the time her cell buzzed with the alert that the delivery driver was approaching with the cake, she had at least managed to de-frosting her hair. Her dress was hopeless. She’d scraped everything off, but the buttercream had left greasy stains all over the bodice and skirt.
Dry-cleaning might salvage it, but she didn’t have a change of clothes at her disposal.
So, she was embracing the stains.
Stashing the dirty towels in the basket next to the sink, she turned to the door, opened it, and—
Froze.
A white dress shirt was hanging on the outside of the knob, a note peeking out of the breast pocket.
Can’t change the past, but maybe this note will help.
-B
Her heart did that squeezing thing, but she shoved it down again, ignoring the stutter, pretending she hadn’t even had it in the first place. This didn’t mean she was going to forgive the man, and she certainly wasn’t going to give him a second chance.
No fucking way.
But she was going to use the shirt to cover the worst of the stains. She slipped it from the hanger, buttoned it up, not fully appreciating how much bigger Brad was than her until the starched cotton was surrounding her, engulfing her in his spicy, male scent, the fabric soft against her skin and hanging to her knees, the sleeves draping past her fingertips. It was intoxicating to be wrapped up in him, in the shirt that was still warm from his body.
“It’s probably not even his,” she muttered, rolling up the sleeves.
But something inside her knew it was, and that inclination was confirmed when she walked out into the area where the reception was being held and saw him dancing with Cora, clad in just a skin-tight white T-shirt.
Ignoring the dance floor, she slipped out to the front of the building, meeting the delivery woman, and
